


Revelry

by TheBeesofNotredame



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1920s, Angst, Bittersweet, Gen, M/M, Pining, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 18:17:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20394055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBeesofNotredame/pseuds/TheBeesofNotredame
Summary: “My dear, sometimes I thought I saw you. But maybe it was just the times that made me think of you.”- @naniiebimworks your beautiful work inspired me.While serpents slept the world continued to turn and it was a shame, Aziraphale thought, that He should miss it.





	Revelry

**Author's Note:**

> My first tumblr fic prompt of sorts. Inspired by the beautiful artwork of naniiebim https://naniiebimworks.tumblr.com/post/187151338778
> 
> A little rough around the edges, but it's been years since I've written anything.

_“My dear, sometimes I thought I saw you. But maybe it was just the times that made me think of you.”- [@naniiebimworks](https://tmblr.co/mjhcXhuEw0LZBqTS4Eth3FA) your beautiful [work](https://naniiebimworks.tumblr.com/post/187151338778/my-dear-some-days-i-thought-i-saw-you-but-maybe) inspired me._

**1922 San Francisco, California**

Decadence. Opulence. Elegance. The 1920s crash into the world like the shattered glass of so many champagne flutes- beautiful from a distance, glittering as light refracts off of the shards from the newly minted lightbulbs. It is only up close that you might notice the cuts and scrapes the collision leaves behind.

But that is all melancholy conjecture that has no place in an era riding high from World War I on a wave of bathtub gin and bootleg whiskey. Aziraphale shakes the thoughts away and does as the Romans do, drowning his sorrows away in speakeasy martinis and hor d'oeuvres. 

He likes it here, well enough. 

Did he miss the more refined entertainment of years past, where an exciting night involved a group of well respected, educated individuals discussing the finer points of certain authors and debating rhetoric, reciting poetry as entertainment? Yes, of _course_.

Did he look at these glittering, undulating masses of flailing arms and clattering beads and long for his time in Portland Place, where dancing had steps and structure, rather than ballistic movements as though trying to take flight? Rightly so.

But this is fine.

It is. Truly.

It’s just….

He can’t help but think, that _He_ would love this.

_He_ hated all of that decorum, all the rules and social restrictions, just as much as he had hated the attire. He was I’ll at ease at the odd dinner party and found the balls to be a foul affair (and usually orchestrated a scandal or two to keep himself entertained). Oh he looked the part, but made a poor gentleman indeed. He took pride in it, playing the rogue, the scoundrel, commenting on how laughably easy it was to encourage misbehavior in such a repressed society.

It was no wonder he went galavanting off without a word…

Aziraphale bitterly sipped his martini, only to wince at the taste- like rusted pipes and underripe fruit. He could feel that comforting fog begin to seep back into his mind- a mind that was still far too active for his liking.

He had sobered twice already and was pacing himself this third time, trying to find that perfect balance of inebriation that would allow him to enjoy himself without slipping back into his ever-increasing black moods. He was getting quite good at it if he did say so himself.

He found that two and four sips was the ideal number to turn the trumpets from a whine into a sweet serenade and the drumbeat from a headache into a rhythmic heartbeat, his annoyance into enjoyment. 

In this way he managed to enjoy himself.

Somewhat.

It was a delicate balance, this game he played, his polished shoes unsteady on the knife’s edge and it only took a single sip more to send him toppling.

“_Why do you continue to come here?”_ He would hear in his mind, in a voice so unlike his own. “_Go back to your books, your Tchaikovsky and tea, leave these bright young things to burn out, you don’t belong here.”_

Sometimes the voice would win and he would retire, back to his bookshop, back to his quiet routine.

But more often than not he did not.

Rather he remained at the bar, or perhaps at a table in the corner or upon a balcony, surveying the entire scene as intently as his two martinis and four sips would allow, eyes searching faces with something not unlike hope.

It was never him, though there was a moment or two- a glimmer of hair too red to be obtained naturally, a tall, thin form in a black suit or sparkling black gown- but it never was. 

Of course not.

Deep down, Aziraphale knew why he remained, though he was loathe to ever visit the thoughts sober.

But he knew.

He could see it in the joy and overt extravagance, hear it in the loud music and giddy laughter, those bright young things dancing about like fire, their energy and enthusiasm infectious. They were all impulse and submitted temptation, with no thoughts of what tomorrow might bring. 

And there was something so _beautiful_ about each and every one of them, those madly twisting and writhing bodies, slick with sweat, their sequins shining like scales…

Something so familiar and comfortable about that ecstatic madness.


End file.
